Kingdom Building Game: Starting Out With A Million Upgrade Points! - Chapter 215

Chapter 215: Rumors on the Wind
Arkanos’ eyes darkened, their green hue dimming, flickering like coals in a dying hearth.

“A curse?” he repeated, his voice sharpened with disbelief.

“Do not speak to me in riddles, Isode. What curse could bind an empire such as Threshia, strong in faith and guarded by gods themselves?”

Isode’s grip on his wrists tightened as though she feared his question more than his anger. She lowered her gaze, her purple hair falling like a veil between them. “It was not a plague, nor famine, nor the blades of foreign armies. It was… a dawn. An endless dawn.”

The words struck Arkanos harder than any blade could. He froze, searching her face for any sign of falsehood, but her trembling lips and shrouded eyes revealed only terror.

“The sun rose one morning,” she continued, “but it did not set. Not for days, nor weeks. Time itself seemed caught in its light. Shadows vanished, the stars were banished, and with every passing moment, the world beneath that endless dawn began to unravel. Crops withered though the sun shone. Rivers boiled and dried. The faithful went mad, for they could no longer tell waking from dreaming.”

She shuddered, pressing her forehead to his shoulder as if seeking refuge from memories too heavy to bear.

“Our priests prayed, our saint… my mother… fasted, and even our emperor wept in silence… but none could undo it. Entire provinces were swallowed in light, until their people ceased to exist. No graves remain of them, no ashes. Only emptiness where villages once stood.”

Arkanos’ jaw clenched. He had seen horrors of war, heard tales of divine wrath, but this was something far colder. “And you would tell me now, after lying once already?”

“I did not lie to deceive you!” she cried, her voice cracking like glass. “I lied because I feared to speak the name. To name it is to call it, and even whispers are heard. That is what we were taught. That is why Threshia stood still while the world burned for Eden’s fruit. We could not march, for to leave our lands was to abandon them to the dawn. And so our goddess bound herself, weakened her own divinity, just to hold it back.”

The chamber felt smaller, the walls closing in as silence pressed between them. The fire on the candles sputtered, and for the briefest moment Arkanos thought he saw the light outside shift unnaturally—longer, brighter.

He released her shoulders and stood, striding toward the window with heavy steps. His reflection looked back at him in the glass, sharp-eyed and grim.

“If what you say is true, then this god is not some forgotten relic of lore. It is a calamity that has already tasted blood.”

Isode remained on the bed, pale and trembling, her fingers clutching the sheets. “My lord… if it marks you as foe, then not even your victories nor the goddess’ mantle may shield you. That which brings dawn eternal does not strike swiftly. It devours slowly, until even memory fades.”

Arkanos turned his head, emerald eyes burning with defiance. “Then let it come. I am no nameless village to be erased, no province to vanish quietly beneath its light. If the God of Endless Dawns dares to stretch its hand over me…” He reached for his sword resting by the bedside, fingers curling tight around its hilt. “…I shall cut it off at the wrist.”

The system pulsed once more in his vision, as if in answer:

〘 ⋄ Hidden Quest Updated: Defy the Endless Dawns. ⋄ 〙

〘 ⋄ Condition: Survive until Excalibur is claimed. ⋄ 〙

…

…

The wheat bowed low in the morning wind, a golden sea rippling beneath the touch of autumn. A man’s calloused hands tightened on the scythe as he pulled another stalk into his grasp and cut clean through, the swish of steel almost lost to the chorus of insects buzzing in the fields. His wife bent beside him, her kerchief damp with sweat, while their youngest child trailed behind, gathering fallen stalks in a basket too large for his arms.

“Mind the sheaves, Aron,” the father said, his voice rough but patient. “Every stalk counts this year.”

The boy nodded, though his eyes wandered toward the distant road, where a column of riders glimmered in the sun. Their banners streamed red and gold, the crest of House Heraldran unmistakable even from afar. Farmers paused in their work to watch, some lifting their hats, some muttering quiet prayers. Knights of the Duke still patrolled the breadbasket. As long as they rode, perhaps the rumors of war were only that—rumors.

Closer to the castle, in the training yard, the thud of practice swords rang sharp and steady. Rows of young squires strained under the weight of ashwood blades, their tunics clinging with sweat as older knights barked orders. The scent of hay and iron mixed in the air.

“Again!” roared Captain Jornas, his weathered face creased from decades beneath the sun. He paced like a wolf between the boys, striking the flat of his own sword against a lazy guard. “Do you think the Bloodbane dogs will wait while you catch your breath? Strike as though your life depends on it—because it does!”

Steel clattered as two squires broke into another bout. A cheer rose when one fell, winded, and the other raised his sword in triumph. Jornas allowed the moment, but his gaze flicked toward the horizon, where smoke drifted faintly in the distance—a village burning, or perhaps a farmer’s fire gone astray. He prayed it was the latter.

In the great hall of Castle Heraldran, sunlight cut through narrow windows, laying pale gold across banners stitched with wheatsheaves. Duke Rhonar sat upon the carved oak chair that served as his throne, a heavy man with gray in his beard and pride in his bearing. Around him, advisors murmured uneasily over maps and scraps of parchment.

“They say Bloodbane raiders crossed the frontier last week,” one of the lords reported, sweat beading at his temples. “A watchtower in the north was found abandoned. The men gone. Only the stones left blackened.”

Rhonar leaned forward, knuckles whitening against the armrest. “Rumors travel faster than riders. I will not have my people living in fear over shadows.”

“Shadows kill as swiftly as steel,” Selara cut in, her voice sharp enough to still the room. She stood beside her father, tall and pale-eyed, her dark hair bound in a simple braid. Unlike the lords, she wore no chain of office—only a travel cloak and a sword at her hip. “You know as well as I that Bloodbane does not raid for sport. If their banners gather, they gather for war.”

A murmur rose, half agreement, half protest. Rhonar’s jaw tightened. He turned to Magister Corvane, the warlock whose ink-stained fingers traced idle patterns in the dust along the table’s edge.

“Tell me, Corvane,” the Duke said, his voice like gravel. “Do your leylines speak of invasion?”